


Into This Furnace I Ask You Now to Venture

by Smilla



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2008, Dealfic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-19
Updated: 2011-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:43:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smilla/pseuds/Smilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They need more time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into This Furnace I Ask You Now to Venture

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted [here](http://smilla02.livejournal.com/112913.html).]

_Into this furnace I ask you now to venture,  
you whom I cannot betray._

(The Old Revolution – L. Cohen)

 _I found a silver needle,  
I put it into my arm.  
It did some good,  
did some harm.  
But the nights were cold  
and it almost kept me warm,  
how come the night is long?_

(The Butcher – L. Cohen)

-*-

At first he just sits against the wall, legs stretched in front of him. He sits halfway between the door and the window, doesn't know from where the threat will come. The room is bare, only gray walls to keep him company, a single square on the northern side to stop the monotony of it: the window. The last light of the day fades fast, and beyond the dirty glass he sees ropes of sunrays hanging stubbornly against the coming night.

He knows he's supposed to wait. And he does. The wall grows colder against his back and the dark blankets everything as though someone has hung a black sheet over the building.

He waits, and when he checks his watch mere minutes have passed, and the night is still dark and thick outside. He lights his Zippo only once, the flame long and blue at the edges, warm against his cold palm.

Sam told him to wait, wait until the night passes and Dean does that.

He waits.

Gets bored.

Dozes off.

Startles awake at a sudden noise.

He thinks it's branches scratching against the window. Then he remembers where he is. He stands, keeps his back against the wall, scant protection that it is, but it's always made him feel better, not having his back exposed. The door is maybe four feet to his left, and he edges closer to it a step at a time.

The dogs bark when he moves, and the scratching on the window gets faster; they claw against the glass, and the hairs on Dean's forearms stand straight, his teeth freeze. They leave wet patches on the glass with their muzzles, eyes bright red and hateful. Dean smells sulfur.

He's at the door when the window explode in shards of glass, has barely enough time to escape the room and slam the door on their frenzied growls. The door shakes on its hinges, but it holds and Dean dares giving it his back. A long corridor snakes in front of him, doors on each side, total darkness where it curves to the left. Something nags at the back of his mind, something important he should know or remember.

The door shakes harder and it's a clue; he walks fast along the corridor, opens each door. Each room is empty and dark.

He'd give an arm for a shotgun, thinks that right before his hand closes firmly around one. Seems impossible that he forgot he had it, but whatever's going on, it suits him just fine.

The corridor ends in a door. He debates opening it the same moment he hears the dogs breaking into a run behind him. He's got no choice but forward.

"You come and get me, you fuckers," he shouts behind his back. _See if you can._

-*-

When Ruby came, the light flickered in the bar's restroom and then she appeared out of nowhere. It was her usual trick, and it had made Sam's heart miss a beat those first times, made him go for the nearest bottle of holy water, an instinctive reaction. Until he got used to it.

Sam was splashing water on his face, but kept an eye on her in the mirror; he didn't like when she stood at his back.

"What do you want?" he asked and wiped his face with a paper towel, looked at her reflection. She never came without a good reason, but there was nothing worth mentioning in this nowhere town, and only this bar to relieve his brother's boredom.

A burst of laughter, then loud claps came from the main room, the clack of hard resin balls hitting each other on the pool table: Dean had scored again.

"I need to talk to you," she said. She didn't wait for him to answer before she left the room, heading toward the back exit at the end of the corridor.

Sam threw the towel toward the bin and missed it by a foot, his hands shook so much.

The stink was sharper out there because of the rain. The alleyway was covered in a black sludge, a mix of mud and fallen leaves, dirty and sluggish against the walls.

"You come to make good on your promise, Ruby?"

She sighed and leaned on the wall, heedless of the crap on the street, disregarding the filth.

"I don' t know how to save Dean from his deal," she said, her voice inflecting nothing, not even… not even shame for having lied to him all this time.

Sam nodded, disturbed to realize he'd known all along, and what did that say about him?

Sam stepped out from under the protection of the overhang and into the alleyway. Rain, fine as mist, fell quietly, soundlessly.

Ruby was much closer when she spoke, right at his left elbow. She moved like a cat, silent and stalking.

"But I found a way to hide Dean," she said. "I found a spell--"

"What, another one of your witch remedies? What do you need this time, the blood of a baby?"

She shushed him with a finger, rain-cold against his lips, up on the tips of her feet to touch his mouth, and Sam thought suddenly of how small she was -- her host -- how little effort it would take for him to snap that delicate neck – just enough pressure on the spine, a clean break.

"What if I did?" she said. "What if I told you it's the only way?"

"Get off me. " He batted at her hand and pushed past her toward the parking lot, the illusion of light coming in a yellow glow from the lamps above.

"But I don't need blood, this time," she said on a long sigh and Sam couldn't avoid being interested because he'd searched -- God knew he had -- and found nothing.

A group walked toward the bar, and he watched their progression toward the bar's entry, heard the shrill voices of the girls, their carefree laughter, then the deeper tones of the men's voices. He was going to be sick, the stink of smoke rising off his shirt with the humidity, alcohol bitter and sloshing in his empty stomach.

"We hide Dean. This spell, it'll put him to sleep."

She took a step back, close to the wall, close to the narrow shadows cast by the buildings.

"What you're suggesting is insane, Ruby. I can't… Dean would never--"

"Dean already knows."

Sam took a step back, surprised. Dean hadn't told him. "What are you two doing? Talking behind my back?"

She smirked. "C'mon, Sam, don't be jealous."

"Stop playing around. What did you tell him?"

"Oh, the same thing I'm telling you."

"What… what do you have in mind?" Despite everything Sam couldn't help but ask.

"It's like an invisible spell, but for souls. We'll use some belladonna, comfrey leaves... .You'll get the full list don't worry. The sleep... . It will be like a coma, but deeper--"

"A coma? You're fucking crazy."

She leaned more into the wall, deeper into the shadows, crossed her boots so that only the tips caught the light. She leaned into the wall and into the shadows and the casualness was forced and fake even without any light to show it.

Sam narrowed his eyes, suddenly alarmed by the tension in her body, so at odds with the quiet tones of her voice. No matter the ease of her posture, there was an eagerness in it, a tension, like she was close to getting something she'd wanted for a long time.

"He's being stubborn," she continued, raised her hand into the light when Sam started to speak. Cutting him off. "We need more time, Dean needs more time. And how much does he have left, eh? One month. How long can you drag it out with goofer dust and rings of salt? Without the Colt? Do you think the contract holder will even wait for the deadline before snatching him out from under your eyes? No one said where he could live out that last year. Suppose you wake up tomorrow and he’s gone, just gone. How will you save him then?"

She smirked up at him, eyes flashing with anger.

Two steps and he was in her face, hands at the lapels of her jacket before he'd thought of doing it, clutching them hard.

"Shut up, you bitch. Shut the fuck up!" he shook her hard, rattled the tiny body she'd hijacked until he forced the demon to stare back out at him from those black eyes. Anger flared in them, and then she sighed, sagged back against the wall, went limp in his arms.

"Hear me out, Sam," she said "If Dean goes to Hell we could try to take him back, yes. But think about it. Do you really want Dean to go there, even for a week or a month, even for a single minute? Believe me, boy, I've been there. You don't know what's it's like. You don't want your brother there."

Sam let her go suddenly, as if she were a burning coal. And maybe she was, the way his grip on humanity slipped out of reach whenever she was around.

"Sam, believe me, we need time. Dean needs time and this, this is the only way."

She sighed again and when she put her hand on his chest Sam flinched. But she only patted him there, put a slip of paper into his shirt pocket.

"Here," she said.

-*-

"I talked to Ruby."

Dean sat on the bed, counting money, a thick stack of twenties and fifties, the bills worn and frayed.

"She told you?" Dean asked without stopping. But Sam knew when Dean was interested from the way he raised his shoulders. It was an almost imperceptible tell that Sam was sure would piss Dean off if he knew it gave him away.

"You didn't say you'd talked to her, " Sam said, though he knew he sounded accusing, knew he was being a hypocrite.

Dean shrugged, didn't take the bait. "It wasn't important."

"How much you win?"

"Huh?" Dean smiled. "Over five hundred." He slapped the bundle of bills on his left palm, then picked up three twenties and two fifties, took Sam's wallet from the nightstand and put them into it.

"Dean…"

"I'm putting two hundred in the usual spot, just so you know."

"I think we should use it," Sam said and stood up. Dean craned his neck to look at him, shook his head, then kept fiddling with the bills.

"It seems legit. I found an a reference to it in a German myth. And many others, throughout Europe."

"Yeah? Well, too bad, 'cause I'm not giving myself away to Ruby."

"What… no, Dean. I know you don't trust her, but--"

"But what, Sam? I damn well don't trust her. She's a demon. How many times do I have to remind you of that."

Sam exhaled. "I'm not forgetting, okay? But she helped with the Colt, and she's old, Dean, she's so old, she knows a lot of things. And they are not in any book. Whatever you think of her and her motives, she wants to help."

"How? How's she helped so far, besides the Colt? Think, for Christ's sake. The last time she tried to help she wanted you to carve a hole in a girl's chest. We're talking human sacrifice, here."

"And how did that end, eh?"

Dean tucked the money inside his shirt pocket before slowly standing up. " Forget it, even if she's right, I'm not risking your life."

"What are you talking about?" So that was it. "I killed the crossroads demon, and I'm still alive. Nothing happened. Nothing."

"You said it. _You_ killed the crossroad demon. Me? I'm not gonna do a single thing."

"But you wouldn't, Dean. This thing… this spell, it won't break the deal. You aren't putting me in danger..."

He trailed off. Dean was shaking his head, stubborn as usual.

Sam took a deep breath, tried to calm down. "We know there are ways to extend the time a deal will come due. Remember that painter in Rosedale, Mississippi? He used goofer dust to hold the hellhounds off. This is no different, maybe it's more powerful. Ruby says--"

"Ruby, again. Fuck her. I can't believe she's filling your head with this crap."

"She's not, okay?" Sam said, louder this time. "I just want to--"

"I know what you want. And I get it. But I'm not trusting her with your life, with my life. And neither should you. I'd rather take my chances--"

And that was fucking precious of Dean, talking like that. "What, Dean? What chances are you talking about. Going to Hell?"

"Do I have a choice? Because from where I stand I'm not seeing any. And I'm sorry it hurts you, but--"

"Hurts me?" It was gone. Whatever thin thread Sam's patience had hung on to. Gone, along with any hope that a conversation regarding Dean's deal wouldn't end in a fight. But his good sense fled with his patience and his mouth just kept on forming words and spitting them in Dean's face.

"It doesn't _hurt_ me." Hurt was too easy, something a Bandaid could fix. "I can't stop thinking about it, and God help me, Dean, not a single moment of any fucking day passes without me wishing I were dead."

Sam was aware, on some distant level, how much the fight was escalating out of control, going places he hadn't meant to go. Picking up the gun wasn't in his plans. But Dean always frustrated him, a single word enough to piss Sam off beyond reason, and the gun was there, on the nightstand, so close.

Sam only wanted to make a point, get through to Dean for once.

Sam saw Dean, going from pissed off to alarmed to shocked.

The gun was heavy and cold in Sam's hand. He raised it -- his sight blurred with rage -- turned it toward himself -- he only wanted to make a point. And then Dean's shoulder hit him right in his middle – a full body tackle -- and he was falling, head bouncing against the floor, dazed and limp and suddenly feeling ten kinds of a fool.

"You son of a bitch." Dean was screaming in Sam's ears. "You don't get to do this." Dean's left hand curled like a vise around Sam's wrist, twisting his hand, trying to turn the gun away. Away from Sam.

Sam realized what Dean was screaming, what Dean had implied. He let his fingers open, let the gun fall. Gone. Dean kept on screaming, hand twisting Sam’s wrist…until Dean crumpled too, went limp against him, and Sam felt Dean's body shake, then wetness on his shirt where Dean's head was.

It was the most intimate he'd been with Dean since they were both children, and Sam wanted it to last forever: Dean tucked against him, safe where Sam could protect him.

"I wasn't, Dean… God, I'm sorry. I wasn't… not that. I'd never do that to you."

He patted Dean's head. So awkward to be the one to give comfort, unnatural, but getting easier by the minute.

"I'm sorry, okay?" he whispered in Dean's ear. "But you've got to let me save you, Dean. You've got to let me save you." Dean didn't move, so Sam went on.

"I need to save you." Sam didn't know if he was listening.

"Please, Dean. Please."

-*-

Road for miles and miles, chewed up and spat out then left behind. Dean drove quietly until all that remained of the sun was a powdery pink and a deep violet before the blue.

Abruptly Dean swerved the car off the road, like an afterthought, like he hadn't meant to.

"Hey!" Sam squawked, grabbed at the dash to keep from sliding forward. The tires skidded on the loose gravel as Dean pulled up by a small clearing, the Impala balanced to one side, half on the paved road, half on the shoulder. Behind Dean's head Sam saw open fields, the lines of the trees, in the distance, their black silhouettes, squared and ready like soldiers before battle. The car ticked while the engine cooled down and settled, and when Dean talked he looked Sam straight in the eyes, his own bright with that last light of the day.

"I heard the hellhounds, you know? Earlier today when you went for coffee. I thought it was stray dogs, but they were no dogs."

Sam said nothing, he couldn't think of a single thing that sounded right or useful.

Dean nodded, approval for Sam's silence or for whatever he was thinking, Sam couldn't say. "Sam, I… I don't want to lie to you."

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but Dean jerked his head abruptly back to the road, and Sam saw the way his Adam's apple bobbed, how hard Dean tried to keep some sort of control on his emotions.

"Maybe," Dean said finally. "Maybe if there's a way to take Ruby out it? Maybe her idea isn’t a bad one."

The hint of hope in Dean's voice was devastating.

-*-

Sam had always been good at planning and so he did.

Money, he told Dean and Dean nodded, asked him how much, and Dean nodded again, said he could set up new credit cards for that.

Dean let out a bored sigh, glanced at Sam above the menu of the "Riana Tina Tavern", a diner an hour closer to their destination - in a nondescript farming town in Iowa.

To Sam's silence, Dean said, "call Bobby already, Sam."

Yes, Bobby. Sure.

"You're gonna be hooked on a feeding tube," he told Dean, the same moment the waitress brought Dean's order and his own, something with tuna in it judging by the smell. Dean had ordered it for him, and it was good, the crust cracked under his teeth and the inside oozed a mix of melted cheese and sauce.

"I figured as much." Dean said but he was staring outside the window, mouth full and bread crumbs falling on his plate and hands.

"We'll need someone for the medical stuff," Sam said.

"Bobby can handle that."

"We don't even know if it's going to work."

"Jesus, Sam! What's wrong with you? Call Bobby already."

Sam nodded. He was suddenly exhausted. The weight of the last year was like lead on his back, every fucking day and hour and the minutes in between. He didn't know if he could do it. Outside, behind the window, houses and buildings, a town he couldn't remember the name of, people passing by, and he thought that he'd lived the better part of his life as anonymous as them. He wavered then, thought of giving up. Thought maybe he should let go. Staring at his brother's profile, he thought, _I could._

He called Bobby instead, dialed the number and waited three rings until Bobby's voice came through the phone.

When Sam told him the plan, Bobby didn't immediately call them idiots, didn't shout over the phone. He didn't say anything for long minutes and Sam kept watching Dean, who was looking away, out the window, face pallid in the livid light, knuckles white around his fork.

Bobby sighed, a long tremulous exhalation, loud in Sam's ears, then he said, "I don't know if it's such a good idea."

"Bobby, we don't have much time."

"What if it ends up being worse?"

"Worse than what, going to Hell?"

Dean shushed him, pointed his thumb to the next booth. Sam hadn't even realized that he'd raised his voice, attracted the attention of the couple there. He lowered his voice. "You're not asking me to give up, right? It'd be better if you helped us, but we'll find a way whether you do it or not."

Another long silence before Bobby spoke again "What kind of spell are you talking about?" he asked.

"It's complicated. Ruby said it would put Dean to sleep and that it would be enough for… you know."

Dean flinched. "Christ, Sam. Go outside!"

Sam blushed. "Yes, yes. Sorry." Then to Bobby, "hang on a minute, I've got to go outside."

He slid from the booth, throwing a hard look at the couple in the seats beside theirs when he walked to the exit. The girl blushed beet-red and averted her gaze.

Once outside he walked toward the Impala, hunched against the wind, against the cold of the morning. The sky was overcast and the wind blew fast, hissed in the space between his ear and the phone.

"Okay," he said. "I'm alone now."

"Good, because now I can tell you exactly how idiotic I think this plan is. Trusting Ruby. Have you lost your mind?"

"We're not trusting Ruby: we're asking for your help."

"You sure, Sam?" Bobby said, something in his voice Sam didn't like at all. And it angered him, he wasn't expecting Bobby to be a problem, not when he'd convinced Dean to stop standing passive while his days ticked by.

"I'm sure. And I haven't lost my mind. What I know is that Dean's going to die in less than a month and there's no better option at the moment that I can think of."

He stopped, realized he was shouting and didn't care. "I looked everywhere, Bobby. There's nothing. You said it yourself, there's no answer in any book. But I have a chance now, and I'm going to take it."

He didn't notice Dean coming outside, didn't hear him above his voice and the wind, not until Dean was at his back. Dean snatched the phone from Sam's hand, something weird and painful on his face. Dean wouldn't meet his eyes when he talked to Bobby, kept his head thrown back, stared at the sky.

To whatever Bobby asked, Dean only said: _Yes_.

-*-

Bobby called again later that night, asked Sam to read Ruby's spell twice, then told them to stay put until he called back. So Dean picked a room three miles off the highway and for two days he just slept, got up disgruntled and irritated to eat and piss, a frown so pronounced Sam feared his brow would never straighten up. Sam wanted to ask if Dean was changing his mind, if maybe facing the hellhounds together wouldn't be a better idea.

But he never found the courage. Spent the time looking outside at the boring expanse of the semi-deserted parking lot, instead. There was an empty building site on the other side of the road, and he tried to imagine what they were building. In the sunset, the cranes were like gallows on an abandoned stage.

The first night, Sam ran: big laps around the motel, went up the main street. He came back exhausted, but his body wouldn't settle for sleep no matter how much Sam tried. He lay wide awake, cursing Bobby for having planted the seed of doubt in his brain, hating that it was a reasonable one.

Twice, he almost shook Dean awake, thought better of it at the last moment. Once, he dialed Bobby's number, but he killed the call before the first ring. He ended up spending the night working worst case scenarios. Too many things could go wrong, and he'd always had a vivid imagination and now it served him in the worst possible way.

He fell asleep at dawn and he dreamed he hunted a revenant with Dean's face all through the cold night of the desert, and his boots thumped hollowly on the frozen earth, but left no tracks. He dreamed he was drinking water but it was red like blood, awoke with a choked scream, the taste of copper in his mouth. The sheets were damp and twisted around his legs.

The next day was a copy of the first. Dean still a shadow, the night longer, until exhaustion put him to sleep.

He opened his eyes to the digital clock blinking five-something at him. He groaned, blinked and saw that Dean's bed was empty. He stood up, irrationally terrified for the single minute it took him to see the light coming under the bathroom. The door was ajar and he entered, found Dean staring at himself in the mirror, and Sam couldn't see his face, only his back.

Sam wondered what nightmare had woken him up, or if Dean like Sam just couldn't sleep anymore. It was still so dark outside, the room cold.

"Hey, Sam," Dean said without turning, voice rough with sleep. "I was thinking, I'll be like… Sleeping Beauty."

"Dean."

"Just, don't kiss me okay? Find a hot chick, and let her do the job--"

"Don't joke about it, please."

But Dean didn't smile when he turned, his voice barely audible when he said "Don't… I mean, don't take your time, Sam. Okay? Don't let me stay gone for too long."

"No, Dean, no." He got closer, only a step to stand in front of Dean. "Talk to me, man. If you're not sure, if you don't want to do it, we'll find another way."

"It's all right," Dean said and shook his head. "What a fucking mess!"

"I'm so sorry," Sam said after a long moment. "I'm sorry I didn't find a better way."

-*-

He opens the door.

He was expecting fresh air, a street, a wood maybe. He wasn't expecting bright light. It blinds him at first, after so much time in the dark and he squints. Pale green walls, stairs right in front of him, white wooden doors and at his left what looks like a living room. His heart starts beating fast and he thinks, _what the hell_ , cocks his shotgun and steps inside.

The house is silent, not even the barks of the hellhounds filters through the door. It gives off a vibe of emptiness, like one day whoever lived here just stood up and left. In the living room a television streams blue light at the empty couch, but the volume is turned off. He walks closer to it. The couch is cream colored, same as the wallpaper, except there are pink flowers on that. There are pictures on the coffee table and when he steps closer to look at the faces in them, he trips on a toy. It squeaks under his foot and Dean winces at the loud noise, then kicks it aside.

He looks around, finds the first clue of where he is in a painting hanging on the wall, the flash of an old memory, faded and almost forgotten. Gone up in flame twenty-five years ago, burned like this house had.

There's a noise upstairs, like something fell and it startles him, but then the front door bangs against the wall.

The dogs stream inside and toward him, and he shoots. Dark red blood sprays the wall when he hits one of the dogs. It falls from mid-air right onto the coffee table, and it splinters under its weight, but the dog stays down.

First blood is Dean's.

There are three dogs left and they circle him, wary and cautious this time; their fur is dark, knotted with dirt, jagged and raised like a visible backbone. They growl throatily while they advance, bigger than any dog Dean's ever seen, a glimpse of Hell in their burning eyes.

But he isn't going there. Fuck them all, he isn't.

As though in reply, the house goes up in fire. The flames sparkle already high and bright orange, thick with smoke as if they've been eating from the wood and the furniture for a long time.

Dean freezes, the time it takes him to shake another memory away, this one way more vivid. Then he turns around and dives toward the closest window.

-*-

Dean's cell rang while they were having breakfast, waiting for the black-haired waitress who served them double-sized slices of pie and called Dean honey.

"Hey, Bobby," Dean said, and Sam listened to Dean's part of conversation. A repeat of the last one: three words in total before he wrote something on a napkin, a name and an address, a last _yeah, sure_ before he flipped his phone shut with a murmured thanks.

Dean slid the napkin across the checkered tablecloth and Sam read it. Of course. He thought. Of course, it was Louisiana.

"Bobby says we're not supposed to call her by her name," Dean said, still thoughtful, hunched over the table and unsmiling.

Sam let him be. Let it be because it was hard always trying to fix everything, knew he only managed to put patches here and there that were like Bandaids over gaping wounds.

They left the diner right after Bobby's call, crossed into Nebraska by the afternoon. Dean drove with the music turned up so loud Sam's skin stretched tight and drummed in time with the beat.

-*-

The address Bobby gave them didn't exist anymore. Grass had claimed the road where the house was supposed to be, and the neighborhood was just a big field of rubble. Rotten lumber sticking up from the earth marked the spots where once there were houses and life and children playing in the puddles after the rain.

Dean stopped the car in the middle of the road, climbed out and walked.

Sam watched from inside the car for the time it took Dean to arrive at the intersection, what remained of it; then he too stepped into the humid sun.

They found the house by walking aimlessly, no living soul around to ask for directions even if Dean were inclined to ask. The house was the only one still standing. However, it wasn't a house, more a shack, still holding upright by virtue of hope and desperation, the timber so rotten Sam thought it wouldn't bear the added stress of their combined presence. There wasn't a door. Only a dirty blanket hung from the frame, thick wool, color lost under the dirt, heavy with grease and smelling sharply of rancid smoke. Meant to block the light, to filter the sun; Sam didn't think it'd block anything else.

"Hello?" he called, and pushed the blanket aside as he entered.

The inside was dim and reeked of must and darkness, like the sun had never touched those decayed walls or the woman who lived within them. She appeared at Sam's left, her movement smooth, like a shadow detaching from the walls and becoming solid. She was so short Sam thought for a moment she was a child.

She wasn't. Her power hit him, centered high in his chest. Checked though, tightly leashed like she knew exactly how much of it she could spill outside and toward them. Dean, at Sam's right elbow, ought to feel it too, but he didn't give any obvious sign aside from a little flinch.

Her voice, when she spoke, was quite a shock coming from those puckered lips, ageless. Without any inflection, words sweet like decomposing flowers.

"Sit, boys," she said. She pointed to a baggy couch, but didn't sit herself. She simply stood there and let them watch. The skin on her face was gray, crinkled: it folded deeply on her chin, crusted with dirt. An opaque screen covered her eyes. Blind.

"I met your father, once." She let the revelation hang in the air, nodded to herself, seemingly satisfied when neither Sam nor Dean said anything.

"I can't help without knowing first," she said, and shut Sam up with a raised hand when he tried to speak. She moved in front of Dean instead, shuffled her feet like it was too hard raising them above the floor. Her head was level with his now that Dean sat. She put her knotted fingers on Dean's face, turned it towards her. "What do you want from me, boy?" She softly claimed Dean's gaze as if she knew he wasn't looking her way.

Dean winced. Sam saw the long shiver that raised the hairs on his forearm, saw how much Dean wanted out of there and Sam started to stand, ready to call it foul and find someone else, something else, freaked out beyond reason by the tension growing in Dean's face.

The woman recoiled, hands tucked inside each other and against her chest as if they hurt. She cried out, a single shrill note, short and sharp.

"Your soul, boy--" she said, panting through her nose, face contorted, seeming older and exactly like the witch Bobby claimed she was.

Before Sam could get to his feet, she stepped back in front of Dean where he sat frozen, eyes wide and terrified. She rested her hands on Dean's face again, on his temple, and they slithered low to his cheekbones, the hard ridge of his jaw.

"Oh, child," she said. "What have you done?"

Dean bent his head, averted his gaze. Whispered, _I'm sorry._.

The woman shook her head. "No, no."

She sighed. Kindness changed her expression and for a moment Sam thought he saw someone else watching from her eyes, a younger version of her. Black hair instead of the gray wispy strands covering her head, smooth skin as white as milk, a superimposition of images gone when he blinked.

"We need your help," Sam said, breaking the unnerving silence. He knew Dean wouldn't talk; words always failed him when he needed them the most.

The woman turned, movement graceful this time, elegant and fast and her fingers when they touched his face were cold and bone-hard, bolt of energy that went all the way to his arms. He stilled too, like Dean had, closed his eyes and let her do her eccentric exploration. Let her find what she was searching for in the structure of his bones, in the dip of his nose. She lingered around his mouth, like she could open all his hidden doors, even those whose keys he'd thrown away.

"Do not shy from me, little boy, " she said. "Anywhere I look, I see only love. In the both of you. I see only love."

She trailed her hands over his face, let them fall heavily against her side, then nodded to herself. "Read this poor blind woman your spell, child, will ya?"

She couldn't have possibly seen the surprise on his face, but she smiled -- a grimace, really. "Oh, child. I always know," she said.

Sam took the slip of paper Ruby gave him, read it out loud once, then a second time when she asked him.

She sat, said nothing more, and Sam turned to Dean, expected Dean to crack a joke at the woman's weirdness. But Dean was still staring at the floor.

After a long time, she shuffled toward a table, took a pen and a piece of paper, bent over it and started writing slowly. Sam saw the way the left hand accompanied the right as she wrote, like she was checking the shape of the words with her fingers. When she finished she folded the paper once, twice, pressed the edges until they were sharp.

"This ought to fix the spell," she said. Then she stretched her arm in offering.

Sam stood and took it. But she grasped his wrist, pulled until he bent his head close to hers. "This is dangerous magic," she whispered into his ears. " Be careful. Hidden isn't always better. He'll be caught between here and there."

"How… how does it work?" Sam asked, and hoped Dean wasn't listening.

"But there are many things and many places between here and there," she continued, as if talking to herself, as if Sam had never asked.

-*-

Sam got soda for them both. He could already see stars, little points of light far west, the day flirting with the night, saying a long goodbye. He found Dean reading a newspaper. He sat on the single motel room chair, the paper turned toward the window to catch the last of the light.

"Hey, read this," Dean said, and in the gloom his eyes were bright.

There were rumors of men going missing in Iowa, turning up dead and mauled after a week. Dean read the article aloud and asked, "What do you, think? We still have time?" Face eager and knowing well they did, that they had time.

Still Dean asked Sam, turned the choice to him.

He said, "what the hell! Yes, Dean we've got time."

"Good, Sam. Good."

Dean drove for eighteen hours, through the morning and straight into the night, body slack and sprawled on the seat. He kept the radio tuned to local stations, fiddled with the knob whenever the reception fluttered away into static. In Colorado, he picked up a late-night talk show, a woman who talked low and breathily on a background of blues; a lazy talk, voice rough with smoke, syrupy-slow. Dean kept the volume turned so low Sam couldn't make out the words. He didn't care anyway, let the voice sooth him into a semi-asleep state. The road blurred behind the windshield, the shadows grew larger and darker then gave way to darkness.

He awoke to Dean pulling into the parking lot of a roadside motel. The vacancy sign was slanted sideways and missed the two middle letters. What remained of it pulsed bright pink against the gray of the sky. Dean checked them in, then fell face first on the bed without bothering to undress, already half-asleep by the time he folded the pillow in half. Sam took pity of him and unlaced his boots, straightened his legs on the bed.

They burned a body that night. Case opened and closed in three hours. Sam stood across from Dean when he threw the match on the soaked corpse laying inside the tomb. The flames rose high between them, gap and bridge, and through them Sam saw Dean, an expression on his face like happiness.

Dinner, afterward, was steak and fries, Dean's chatter cheerful and random. He flirted with the waitress and the girls at the next table and the old woman at the cash register, Sam stared, hung onto every word, every quirk of Dean's mouth, counted and filed everything, filed it away for forever.

"I need a beer," Dean said when they were walking toward the Impala.

"Yeah, sure," Sam said, and rolled his eyes.

"Sammy, Sammy…" Dean smiled. "Hey," he said, "there's a place two blocks ahead. I was thinking of having a drink, unwind a bit. You feeling up to it?"

"Nah, you go, do… whatever it is you do, I think I'll go back to our room."

"Okay," Dean said, and if he was disappointed Sam couldn't tell for the shadows that fell across his face. "Do you want a ride back to the motel?"

"I'll walk, Dean, don't worry."

"Okay, um, I'll see you later, I guess." He climbed inside the car and revved the engine before Sam could call Dean back, stop him.

He walked back to their motel room, let the night air cool his face, the silence in the streets wash over him, and thought that they'd have to do it soon, no sense in tempting fate by waiting.

He read the spell another time. It wasn't so different from the one Ruby gave him. The woman in New Orleans had changed the order of three words, added clove to be used in the ritual and a mix of olive oil and salt that Ruby's version lacked. The witch hadn't given any guarantee about the final effect. No way for Sam -- or anybody else but Dean -- to know for sure. And it scared him, sucked up the hope that he was doing the best thing for Dean. He couldn't follow that thought to the end.

He stood up suddenly. Closed the laptop with too much force. Without the buzz of the processor to mask it, his breath was loud. Anything better than Hell, he thought and then thought it again, tasted how the words sounded when he said them to the silent room. Over and over like a mantra.

It wasn't long after that he heard the low rumble of the Impala's engine quiet and stop outside. Dean opened the door to their room. Despite the faint light, Sam could see the embarrassment on Dean's face, masked by a shrug. He had a brown bag in his hand.

"What did you forget, Dean?"

But Dean just came inside, flopped onto the couch without shedding his jacket. In the bag, it turned out, there was alcohol, tequila of all things. And Sam knew Dean would end up trashed before the end of the day, had chosen tequila on purpose, the fastest way to get where he wanted to go, with the minimum of pain.

Sam joined Dean on the couch and turned on the TV, he found nothing worth watching, and he flipped channels randomly, settled on an infomercial for sunbathing lotions when Dean hummed his approval, drank from the bottle when Dean passed it over, still warm from his brother's lips.

Easy and loose, the silence between them and that was fine for Sam. If it was what Dean wanted.

It was fine, Sam thought. He wanted it too.

-*-

Dean shook him awake.

Sam sat on the bed, shivered, not quite alert yet. "What's up, Dean? You're supposed to be passed out."

"Shut up, I can hold my liquor, unlike a certain girl I know."

Sam flipped him off, or thought he did. "What the hell did you wake me up for at…" He checked his clock, blinked off the bleariness from his eyes and focused on the numbers. "Three forty-five? Fuck, Dean."

But Dean just sat on the end of the bed, and he was fully clothed, his boots unlaced and his shirt creased.

"Dean?"

"I, um, I just. Fuck this is hard," Dean said. He rubbed his right eye, then scrubbed his head with his fingers.

A nervous gesture, enough to clear away any residual of sleep. Sam snapped to attention. "What--"

"I know you'll put things straight, this whole mess I've made of things, I know you'll do it. You're my brother, I know you, okay. I trust you. I do… but you've gotta promise me, man, if it doesn't work, you've got to promise me you won't do anything stupid like making a deal or killing yourself, okay? I know it's selfish, I'm a selfish fuck-up and I don't have any right to ask you that, but you've gotta promise me, man."

Dean stared hard at Sam, when he finished, and Sam stared back, couldn't avert his gaze, couldn't work enough moisture into his mouth to speak.

"Can you do that for me, Sam? Can you?"

But Sam never answered and later, when Dean finally passed out sideways across Sam's bed, he sat by the window thinking of the trust he didn't deserve, of his tainted blood and the secrets he never shared with Dean.

A storm broke on the plains before dawn, lightning spearing the sky, illuminating the corners of the room with flashes of white light, then the out of synch boom of thunder. Before dawn, it calmed, settled into a spring rain, heavy and insistent, raindrops hitting the window sideways with a tuneless rhythm.

It lulled Sam to sleep after a while, the rain.

-*-

Midmorning they arrived at Bobby's. Sam saw the iron gate at the end of the private road, tried to keep from squirming in his seat.

"It's just Bobby, Sam," Dean said without looking his way, but that was exactly Sam's problem, that it _was_ Bobby and he'd made clear this was the worst idea ever. Sam's worst idea.

Right after the curve, Sam saw Bobby on the steps of his porch, his new puppy napping quietly at his feet. He stood stiffly when Dean parked the Impala in its usual spot between the ruins of a light blue Camaro and a Fiat 124 Sport, still flaming red where the rust had not yet eaten away the bodywork. The puppy hobbled happily toward them. It sniffed Sam's feet, then tried to jump up his leg, and Sam bent to pet its head, glad for the brief distraction.

Bobby's cap was pulled so low Sam couldn't see his eyes, and despite Dean's words Sam was dubious all over again, wanted to flee now, even as Dean strode past him to greet Bobby with a determinedly cheerful voice.

Sam stood a step back from Dean, watched as Bobby shook his brother's hand but when Bobby's gaze met his, there was no accusation in his eyes. In its place an inconsolable sadness, a mirrored reflection of his own. In silence he followed Bobby and Dean across the porch and inside, and when the screen door closed shut behind him with a soft whoosh, Sam blinked to adjust his vision to the drop in light, to the cavernous dimness of Bobby's house.

It had always been like that, as long as Sam could remember, rays of sun streaming obliquely from the large windows, but blocked by the piles of books covering every surface; those dark books, dangerous books, they absorbed all the light and the warmth and the life surrounding them.

Bobby stopped in the foyer, Sam unsure where to go and Dean bounced on the balls of his feet, silent and nervous and not hiding it anymore. Bobby coughed like he was clearing his voice to say something, but thought better of it.

He offered them coffee, in the end.

In the afternoon, Dean washed the Impala. The day was warm enough for it, summer in the dryness of the air, the hot beat of the sun through the window glass. Sam stood there, stared at Dean as he worked in the backyard, scared to go outside and join him, too frayed and too close to spill tears. He watched Dean wash his car, following a ritual Sam knew by heart, and lost himself in the familiarity of it, the economic precision of Dean's motions, the weariness around the edges only Sam could see.

Later, after dinner, Dean excused himself from the table, left his plate empty and his glass full. He spent a long time in the bathroom while Sam and Bobby boiled herbs and set up the candles in the bedroom. Sam straightened the sheets on the bed; the room seemed different with the medical paraphernalia Bobby had put in it. White boxes -- Sam guessed -- of glucose and saline were piled up against the wall; two I.V. poles were crammed in the corner closest to the bed, their hooks empty. A tank marked in green -- oxygen.

"Bobby, I want to thank you for everything."

"Don't even mention it."

"No, Bobby. It's not nothing, okay? It means a lot to me, to Dean."

Bobby took off his hat, scratched his head, then nodded sharply before putting the hat back on. "Okay, Sam. Okay."

And then Dean came out of the bathroom, smelled of fresh water and soap, the skin around his neck and chest red like he'd scraped it raw, eyes downcast but smirk firmly in place.

"I'm gonna make a beautiful looking corpse," he said, but Sam could see how hard he was trying not to look at the additions to the room.

Dean brushed by Sam when he walked to the bed, leaned on him, a brief contact, his body high-strung, as if the only way he could express fear was with muscle and sinew. But he took the cup Bobby gave him without speaking, drank it in one go.

Sam watched as Dean lay down on the bed, watched him cross his hands on his chest, shut his eyes. Sam was so close, this close, to screaming so loud that even the mere concept of this fucked-up plan would shatter into a thousand tiny shards. He opened his mouth, took a breath, ready to let Dean know that no, even if Dean was strong enough to carry it through, he wasn't. He wasn't.

Dean opened one eye, peered up at him. "Well? Do I look good or not?"

Dean managed a smile. But his voice was flat and the humor forced, even before Dean looked at Sam, really looked at him, both eyes open.

"Look at me, Sam," he said as seriously as Sam had ever seen him. "Look at me, Sam. I trust you. Do you get it? I do. Never forget, Sam."

Sam could only stare back and wish he trusted himself as much as Dean did.

Dean settled down on the bed, gaze landing briefly on Bobby before he closed his eyes, trusting Sam, yeah, and trusting Sam to Bobby.

Bobby's voice was an octave above silence when he read the incantation, tone flat and monotonous. The words glided smoothly from his lips, like silken strands.

Sam's hand shook when he put the herbs in the brass brazier. They crackled loudly, burned without flames, the smoke rising to tickle his nose, white and fragrant. He put the brazier on the nightstand, then sat on the bed, anointed Dean's chest with oil, yellow and gleaming in the dim light of the candles. Dean twitched under him and he took Dean's hand in his own, Dean gripping back, hard.

Bobby's voice became louder, or maybe Sam was more aware of it, of the words rolling around like swirls of smoke. Of the power simmering and pulsing, the pressure getting stronger, the sounds dimmer. His sight blurred, Dean's grip on his hand loosened, fingers lax and softer with each repetition of the spell. Dean's breath evened out, his chest rising and falling slow and slower, the exhalation loud like heavy sighs.

Sam knew the exact moment Dean went away: the absence of him breached a wide and gaping hole in Sam's chest, ripped away something fundamental, like a limb or half of his heart.

-*-

Bobby arranged the equipment and tubes beside the bed, then knelt beside it. Bobby's hands, scarred and callused and fragile against Dean's skin, trembled with some precious reverence when he smoothed Dean's hair. No way on earth Dean would have allowed such a thing if he were awake.

"I will protect him with my life," Bobby vowed as he stared at Dean's face.

Then he turned toward Sam, eyes fierce.

"You know I don't approve of this. But I hope you're right, Sam. For everything I hold dear, I hope you're right."

"Bobby, I--"

"No, Sam. No. I went along with your plan. But now you're gonna listen to me. Because my help doesn’t come for free, or without conditions."

Bobby stood up with more grace than a man his age ought to have. "No stupid half-assed plans, no going off half-cocked, no solo bullshit. If the spell's working, then Dean's safe for now. But you never, not even once, not for a single minute forget that he's somewhere out there. Don't tell yourself he's simply sleeping."

"God, Bobby. I'd never forget…. How could I?"

But Bobby paid him no mind. "You got the time you needed, got what you wanted."

Like it was something Sam wanted for himself. "What should I have done, let him die?"

"I ain't saying that. But you use this time you got. And you respect Dean and what he's willing to do for you. Or God forgive me, I'll wake him up myself."

"You'd let him go to Hell?" Sam threw his arms in the air, anger flaring bright and hot.

"What's wrong with you, Bobby? I thought you loved him--"

"I love him enough to respect his decisions, Sam. And I hope you do as well. But if you don’t, I'm right here," and he was _there_ , right in his face, "to remind you of what Dean's given his life for."

"He's not dead, Bobby," Sam hissed.

"You better not forget that, either," Bobby said with heat.

Sam flinched, then straightened to his full height. "I'm doing what I need to do."

"Oh, I know, you Winchesters always do. I know damn well. Obsessive bastards. And you," he pointed a finger at Sam, "you haven't fallen far from that tree. And God help me, you're gonna do what's right this time."

Sam heard the warning loud and clear, and it deflated him, that threat, called forth the guilt he'd been trying to choke down. He'd kept so many secrets from Dean, about their mother, about his blood. He'd lied to Dean, told himself his brother didn't need to know. Not when he needed to focus on saving himself. He stared into Bobby's intense eyes, wondered if he suspected. If he'd betrayed his secrets. He wondered if Dean had known, and gone along with Sam's decisions aware that he was holding back on him.

"I'll leave you alone with your brother now," Bobby said and walked to the door. He surprised him when he brushed his arm with his fingers, included him in that protective circle of affection and devotion, easy as that. "Join me downstairs, when you're done. I've got cold beer in the fridge, and we got some planning to do."

When Bobby left Sam walked to the bed.

He didn't touch Dean, but put the wad of cash from his pocket on the nightstand, for Bobby.

He thought of Dean, the day the paperwork had came through to one of their post office boxes, a platinum card Dean had waved in the air like a prize. They'd drained it in the span of two days, and Dean's grin had been wide and mischievous, the one Sam remembered since forever. Sam had watched as Dean counted the money, tucking it into the inside pocket of his jacket when he was done.

 _Look alive,_ he'd told Sam. _Look alive, Sam. Game's on._

Yeah, the game was on, and Sam had a job to do.

Dean looked like he was deeply asleep, his breathing so slow his chest barely moved.

"I hope you're resting, Dean. I hope…. You can trust me, okay? I swear I'll get you back soon. You hang on for me."

He added the protective runes the witch had given him, extra protection besides what Bobby could offer. He did it with painstaking accuracy, checked the lines twice for breaks, and when he was done, Dean's voice came back to him, light, but with a suggestion of worry.

 _Relax,_ Dean had said. _Stop fussing, Sam,_ he'd said. _Everything is gonna work out A-okay._

"Okay," he said. "I'm ready."

-*-

He doesn't know how much time he's been here, wedged inside the space between the rusty wall of one of the abandoned shacks and a lean-to, space so narrow, the dogs can't enter. They'd tried, though, circled it when they'd realized they couldn't reach him. One had jumped on the lean-to, to get him from above, found silver buckshot waiting. The damn dog had yowled in pain, but his body had stayed there, decomposing unnaturally fast, and the smell was so bad, Dean was breathing in the crook between shoulder and neck to avoid being sick.

His knees hurt, bent in two like a switch blade, and he has a gash on his shoulder still bleeding along his arm.

He shivers and flexes his arms to get the numbness out of them. When he's ready, he holds his breath, closes his eyes and strains his senses over the deserted parking lot, farther away, toward the line of the trees, and then beyond where the highway runs.

The silence isn't comforting, doesn't mean they aren't out there waiting for. But he can't stay here, needs to gain the tree line -- more hiding places there -- to survive past the vast expanse of the parking lot. It's close, so close he can smell the leaves.

He edges out, counts to three, then sprints from his crouch. His feet pump on the asphalt, and he knows he gains speed and precious space with each step. His eyes are fixed on the dark shape of the wood until his feet hit the soft underbrush. He stumbles. They're right there on his heels.

He doesn't look back at their red eyes, even as a clawed paw swipes at his ankle. Dean doesn't register the burn of the scratch, only the gush of warm blood inside his boot. He kicks back. The dogs bawls in pain. He grins.

The earth is soft now. He zigzags around the trees, heads down the slope, toward the stream.

He runs, trips on a root, and still runs. He scrapes his hands raw against a stone, then runs again. Water splashes loudly when he steps into the stream. The stream flows languidly, bends around formation of rocks. He crosses to the other side, climbs on the rocks, goes for the high ground. A better, defensible position. A good place to make his stand.

 _Not my last, you bastards._

He stops there for a moment, the hellhounds hidden below by a ledge of rock. It's a momentary reprieve; he can already hear their paws as they scratch against the rocks, coming from two directions.

He lodges his feet firmly in a fissure, braces his back on the rock. The air is colder now, like it is right before sunrise, and there's a clear mist coming off the ground and twisting around the trees. He smiles. No night lasts forever, not even this one. The sun will be up soon.

The scratching gets closer. He checks his shotgun. Cocks it.

"I'm ready," he murmurs.  
\--


End file.
